


Kinktober Day 30: Sex Toys

by tiamatv



Series: Promptober 2020 [29]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dildos, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Size Kink, Top/Bottom Versatile Castiel/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27316423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: Dean has to swallow twice, Castiel notices, before he asks, his voice arching upwards into an amusingly awkward higher register before he catches himself, coughs, and edges it down too far, into a growl. “How do you feel?”Castiel considers the question carefully.“Penetrated, mostly,” he finally answers, honestly.(And, alright, just a little mischievously.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Promptober 2020 [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954990
Comments: 23
Kudos: 157





	Kinktober Day 30: Sex Toys

**Author's Note:**

> This is porn. It's just porn. No, for real, there's absolutely nothing that looks like a plot. It's (very vaguely) set somewhere in, I dunno. Season 10 somewhere? It doesn't really matter...

Dean has to swallow twice, Castiel notices, before he asks, his voice arching upwards into an amusingly awkward higher register before he catches himself, coughs, and edges it down too far, into a growl. “How do you feel?”

Castiel considers the question carefully. He shifts on his knees, and presses both hands to his hipbones, feeling the deliberate external rotation of them from where he’s splayed. He has control of his vessel—his _body_ —so he’s not trembling or feeling any particular strain in how he’s holding himself. He’s balanced, and unlikely to fall.

That said, if this were any other situation, he’d likely feel more than a little ridiculous.

“Penetrated, mostly,” Castiel answers, honestly.

(And, alright, just a little mischievously.)

Dean chokes. He presses a palm to his face, hard enough that he likely smooshes his nose, and the expression peeking out at Castiel from between Dean’s fingers is like he’s not sure whether he’s going to laugh or pass gas.

“You’re an asshole,” Dean mutters, but when he drops his hand, he’s smiling.

Castiel can see the way his green eyes, hooded, rove up and down Castiel’s body—admiring the way Castiel’s shoulders are pulled back, knees widely set from where he’s resting them on their bed.

Castiel moves his hips just slightly, and the bright blue silicone phallus—a dildo, though for some reason Dean doesn’t like that term—inside him presses deeper. A little more than half of it has sunk into Castiel’s body now, perhaps a little less. Dean’s eyes catch on the thick, smooth contour of it, and stick. He’s watching Castiel ride himself onto it, and Castiel finds _that_ compelling, even if the feel of the object stretching him open is cool and inert and not particularly… interesting. His buttocks can’t rest back on his heels yet, but they will be able to soon, and he’ll have all of it inside him.

It’s not bad. It’s pleasurable enough. It’s just… there, though.

Dean’s reactions have been lovely, however. Castiel started out awkward, crouching over impressive length of the firm toy, with Dean’s hand on his waist to help his balance, his hand holding the silicone upright so it doesn’t topple under Castiel’s weight before his body has enough of it within that it won’t. But as the toy sank deeper and deeper inside him Castiel went to his knees on the bed, and Dean stepped away to simply watch.

Castiel’s thighs are tight with the effort of holding himself up so he doesn’t press down too quickly—not that Castiel thinks that would hurt him overmuch, but that’s also not the point of showing off. But Dean—Dean, even though his friend and his lover isn’t touching him, has nothing within him, isn’t even touching himself?

 _Dean_ is trembling a little.

Dean is standing at the foot of the bed, just barely too far away for Castiel to touch, and his shoulders are back as well, proud, enthusiastic. They’re both naked, but Castiel thinks Dean is more so: Castiel watches the flickers of emotion across Dean’s face, the way his freckles are swimming in the darkness of his flush. The loveliest rosy color creeps up to his ears, down his neck, kisses his breastbone.

All of their lights are on, and the glow of it is unforgiving—all the shadows, all their creases and crevices picked out. Castiel has no particular shame about his body—and even better, he can see Dean just as clearly as Dean can see him. He’s watching Dean enjoy the sight of him, and the thought of it makes Castiel ache, beautifully.

Dean steps closer and streaks a fingertip down Castiel’s cheek. “You look really fucking sexy, babe,” he murmurs. Warmth trails from where that small touch lands, and Castiel leans his face into it, smiling. “Is it good?”

Castiel doesn’t remind his best friend that Dean was going to just watch, today, and try not to touch him. Dean was the one who set up that ridiculous rule; Castiel _much_ prefers to be touched. It’s the best thing about sexual intercourse!

But Castiel does rather enjoy the way Dean is looking at him, and there’s something truly beautiful about the hunger of restraint on his face.

“You like it?” Castiel asks curiously, shifting and leaning back slightly, putting a hand behind him and resting it on his calf to give Dean a better view. The muscles of his thighs go taut and thick as he rebalances, and the artificial penis inside him shifts, tugging a little further outwards with the force of gravity and the pull of its heavy base. Castiel reaches down to nudge it back in with his fingertips.

Dean makes a noise that straddles the edge between a whine and a moan. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Oh, shit, I really do. Fuck, Cas, you’re so hot. But I want _you_ to like it, too?” The arch at the end of his voice makes it a question. A little to Castiel’s disappointment, Dean steps back and lifts his hand from Castiel’s face, eyeing him up and down.

“I do,” Castiel assures Dean. Or, at least, he enjoys Dean’s reaction to the sight of him—in this case, it’s close enough. He’s always taken far more pleasure in Dean’s enjoyment, the sparks of brightness and feeling and warmth of his skin, than in the reactions of Castiel’s own body, dulled as they are by grace. He sinks down a little further, feels the phallus stretching him open more, burrowing deeper. When he pets a hand delicately up his own shaft, holding it and his scrotum up against his pubis to give Dean a better view of where the artificial penis is stretching him open, his human lover groans.

“You gonna move?” Dean asks, his voice low and coaxing. He raises a hand as if he’s going to touch again, fingertips skimming so close to the tight muscles of Castiel’s abdomen that Castiel’s breath catches, but he drops it. “Gonna fuck yourself on that like you fuck yourself on me, Cas?” His breathing is coming harsher than Castiel’s, unsteady.

Now Castiel wants to move. He wants to see if his body remembers the rhythm of it the same way, if it’ll make Dean whimper and whine and groan and clutch in the same way. “I’m not sure,” he teases, instead and purses his lips, pointing with his chin at Dean’s groin. “I think if I just stay this way long enough you might come anyway.”

Dean doesn’t normally get particularly wet, he doesn’t make as much precome as Castiel does—but he’s wet now, beading up silvery over the head of him, gathering along his slit and trickling down his length. One curvettes off the tip of his glans and drips to the floor.

He’s not even touching himself. Castiel hasn’t yet touched him.

Castiel licks his lips. He wants _that_. But Dean pulls a face at him for his teasing.

Castiel _does_ quite enjoy teasing him.

And Dean’s expression when Castiel balances forward and lets himself rise, lets the heavy length slip further out of his hole, carried by its own weight, then settles back down, impaling himself with _his_ own weight, is exquisite.

“Fuck, Cas, it’s huge, and you’re just… taking it all in,” Dean marvels, his voice husky. “God, look at you, can’t believe you never had a cock up your ass before me. We ever tried to see how many fingers I can get into you?”

Dean must know they haven’t. That, though, that _is_ something Castiel would want to try—he enjoys the asymmetrical wiggle and slick warmth of Dean’s fingers pressing him open, lube-wet, so deliberate. Dean doesn’t have to be careful with him, but he always is. It’s very sweet, though also very unnecessary.

(When Castiel commented on that, amused by his lover’s tenderness, Dean love-tapped him on the buttock. However, Dean’s reaction when Castiel, annoyed, flipped Dean over and smacked one of those firm, round buttocks back was _much_ more provocative.)

This time, the thought of Dean’s fingers pushing inside him, one after the other, makes Castiel hungry. He eases himself the rest of the way down—all the way down, _ah._ Oh, that does feel very remarkably stretched—tight, tense. His vessel quivers around it, and he feels the toy gently rock within him in response. The heavy base presses against his crease, grounding.

“Hmm,” Castiel murmurs, reaching down to pet his fingers gently up and down his own erect length, pulling it gently upwards to rest along his abdomen. He thumbs back his foreskin and runs the pad of his finger through the wetness dewed up within it. Clearly, his body is enjoying this, nearly as rigid as what’s inside him.

This does feel nice—his hand on himself, the toy inside him. Not exciting the way it is when Dean’s shoving inside him, a moan vibrating along the back of Castiel’s shoulder blades, but he is pleasantly full. Pleasure tingles gently along the edges of his grace as he wraps his fingers fully around himself and sets up a slow, easy rhythm.

 _Dean’s_ the one who groans, and the hand he reaches down to clutch at himself, holding himself around his thick base, is firm and desperate. “ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers, his gaze darting between Castiel’s hand on himself and lower, where he can’t see what is happening anymore, but he no doubt _knows_.

Castiel already suspects this likely won’t be enough to bring him to orgasm. Maybe without the flesh, without the connection, he can’t… he’s never tried. He doesn’t mind, though. Watching Dean struggle with his own lust is exquisite.

“It took so much longer to stretch you open so you could take it, didn’t it?” Castiel asks, hearing his vessel’s strain in his voice. Dean can hear it, too, and his hand starts moving on himself in small jerky strokes, just at his base. Dean’s fingers are gripping himself a little too tight; it’s desperation as much as luxury.

“Yeah…” Dean breathes. He shudders at the memory. They both do, a little. Patience should be nothing to a being like Castiel, who has seen stars birth and die, but he’s learned that hunger can be a _feeling,_ and not simply a sensation. And spending hours teasing Dean open left them both shaking with want. “Heh. We got it in, though, didn’t we? In the end.”

Castiel nods, eagerly, and rocks enough on the base that it presses against the tight stretch of skin behind his testicles, the rigid weight inside him shifting just enough to accelerate sensation. This, the idea of pleasuring himself with an object that has pleasured Dean… Castiel likes that thought, too.

He’s able to ride it more easily than Dean could, though. Dean could no longer sit up by the time it was its full length inside him, and they resorted instead to laying him out on his back, Castiel’s hand at the bottom of the heavy toy, moving it carefully within him. It’s not as big as some, and not any more absurd than a piece of heavy silicone shaped into an unrealistically smooth blue penis should be—or at least Castiel doesn’t think so, he’s _seen_ some of those other ones on the website where they purchased this. (Sometimes the things that humans find pleasurable are still confusing.)

But this toy is still considerably larger than either of their bodies. Castiel, enraptured by the small whines that Dean made with every careful push, bent Dean’s knees up against his chest so he could see. Dean’s rim was stretched so taut and pink around the dildo’s smooth blue surface that even the smallest, most deliberate in-and-out motions of Castiel’s hand saw the delicate, ridged opening flinching and tugging, unable to clench around it. When Castiel, curiously, leaned down and licked at where Dean was tightest, his nose pressing against the stretch and stripe of perineum, Dean yowled.

Castiel would have been alarmed by the desperation in the noise if Dean’s hand hadn’t clenched hard enough on Castiel’s scalp to leave scratches, the instant of bright connection spilling Dean’s pleasure onto Castiel’s nerves, revealing the lie in the pain of the sound. Dean’s back bowed so dramatically that the phallus nearly jerked free—or it would have, if he hadn’t had so much of it within him. He came onto himself with his whole body, his penis—his cock, he likes to call it; Castiel has come to enjoy the word, too—pulsing out semen to cover his pubis, his stomach, his chest in warm, slippery abandon, matting the delicate trail leading down from his umbilicus. He didn’t stop for quite a while, wan, creamy dribbles coating his length fully by the time he was limp against the sheets, unable to keep his knees up any longer. Castiel had never seen him so shattered.

The memory is lovely enough that Castiel rethinks whether he will be able to take his pleasure like this. Perhaps, perhaps. He moves on it in a slow, grinding thrust that runs through him, following the rock of his hips with a little tease at the tip of him with his thumb. Oh, that _is_ nice. Maybe a little more…?

The phallus isn’t anchored and stable the way Dean’s body is when Castiel rides him, though, and that’s frustrating more than it is enticing. When he lifts up, it lifts with him before sliding free—quite a distance free. It doesn’t leave him completely—it can’t, trapped within him by its own length, the bulbous tip caught inside his rim—but it leaves slowly before thumping back onto the mattress. Castiel impales himself again, frowning, but when he rises, it rises with him again. Again, not unpleasant—there is something to the quick insertion and slow withdrawal that he thinks might be quite agreeable under other circumstances—but it was not what he was looking for.

Dean’s eyes are round as he watches, though, and his hand has stilled on himself. His full lips have gone visibly dry. HIs cock has a bobbing life of its own. “Oh, _Jesus fuck_ ,” he mumbles.

Castiel does it again, and sighs, looking down between his legs in annoyance. He supposes he could reach down and anchor the toy with a hand, but being hunched over that way seems so awkward and uncomfortable…

“Please help?” Castiel asks, plaintively.

He doesn’t truly require assistance. Castiel is quite sure that he could figure it out eventually. But while he enjoys what he is doing, it’s not actually for his own benefit, and he would rather enjoy it _more_.

Dean’s determination to not touch him, to just watch as Castiel fills and pleasures himself with their largest toy, was probably flimsier than either of them thought. Dean is upon him, murmuring something like “Oh thank God, sweetheart, thought you’d never ask,” before Castiel has completed his next thrust.

Dean really should have told him beforehand that that was what he wanted; Castiel would have asked sooner. But Castiel knows him and humanity well enough to understand that Castiel asking of his own volition, _despite_ Dean’s resolve, was probably at least partially the point.

Which still strikes Castiel as a little strange. That said, he’s come to understand the appeal of foot massages, but not always sex games sometimes, so he’s willing to try most things.

(Dean knocked over a lamp because he was laughing so hard when Castiel told him this.)

But there’s no room for that now. Dean’s hands blaze on Castiel’s shoulders; his tongue is a revelation as Castiel opens for it. They both sigh as they settle together, lips teasing against lips, and it’s gentle. Not careful, but the familiarity of the kiss settles them both off their nervous, awkward edge; it’s already so much better than it was an instant ago that Castiel, for the first time tonight, hears himself moan.

Dean smiles and pulls away, but it’s only to press another kiss to Castiel’s jaw, then underneath, to his neck. “You’re so gorgeous, Cas,” Dean mumbles, undone in this as he so rarely allows himself to be outside of it, and Castiel thinks that this is the true reason Castiel enjoys sex so much: no-one else sees Dean this way, frantic and hungry. “Fuckin’ sex angel.”

“There’s no such thing,” Castiel says, sighing.

Dean knows that, of course. Castiel says it anyway because it always makes Dean smile, like he’s smiling now, the curve of it palpable in the kisses he’s arching along Castiel’s collarbone. And, well, it’s not like he’s unaware that it’s a _compliment_ , in Dean’s mind.

If he could erase the memory of Dean’s past paramours from his mind, he might—well, no. Castiel _could._ But he doesn’t, wouldn’t, of course.

(First, because he’s aware that it would be wrong anyway. Second, because even the little flitters of memory that he can’t block out—though he always tries, because he knows that Dean does not like him reading his mind—make it quite clear that it’s never been like this for Dean with anyone else, not with all his trysts and games and play. And Castiel likes that Dean knows it—that Dean, at times, thinks about the wonder of it and how much _better_ it is between them, sometimes so strongly that Castiel could no more block him out than clouds can erase sunlight.)

They rearrange; Castiel lies out against the sheets, unfolding himself. He looks down between his bent legs at the toy’s base again, and he thinks it all looks so much better like this—Dean’s hand resting against the toy as he generously smears it again with warm lube, Dean’s smile up at him as they both realize that this is very similar to the position they took when it was Dean’s turn.

“You weren’t really getting much out of it the other way, were you,” Dean asks, ruefully.

Castiel blinks, slowly. He opens his mouth to demur, then hesitates. “What makes you say that?”

Castiel’s beloved kisses his inner thigh, gently. His chuckle trembles, gently scratchy with the beginnings of arousal and the warmth of fondness, up and down Castiel’s nerves in a rasp that is almost a caress. “Hey, gimme some credit, here, buddy. I like to think I know by now what you look like when you’re having fun.”

Castiel snorts, softly. He knows that human partners fake the appearance of pleasure for their partner’s benefit, but not only does he not ever want to do that, he suspects he’d look ridiculous if he tried. “I _was_ enjoying it,” he answers—then, more honestly, “I don’t think it feels for me like it feels for you, but I like that you like it.”

“I mean, I _do…_ but let’s see if we can’t get this so we both like it.” Dean chews thoughtfully on his full lower lip. He smears a thick coating of more lubricant up the shaft of the sex toy, and continues until his thumb is feathering wet around and around where it slides into Castiel’s body, and that, _that,_ for the first time is not just cold, unfeeling stretch. That’s skin, that’s the golden crackle of electricity, and it’s delicious. Castiel growls. Dean’s eyes go bright with interest. “Like that?”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “Do that again.”

“Oh, so _now_ you’re bossy,” Dean murmurs. But he does—he combines it with a slow press, reinserting what has emerged until Castiel is crammed full again. But Dean’s fingers playing across the soft inner surfaces of his buttocks, spreading him more open for the toy, keep the sensation from becoming dull. By the time Dean is thrusting it slowly in and out of him, Castiel’s body is thrusting back—into the silicone inside him, upwards to where Dean is toying, teasing, his mouth pressing wet sucking kisses against the base of his cock, sucking gently and rolling each sensitive testicle against his lips.

Dean’s other hand is gripping his thigh hard, and the handprint of that drags Castiel along. He knows/doesn’t know that Dean is enjoying himself thoroughly, grinding into the bed as he traces rugations and creases and imperfections with the tip of his tongue, weighs Castiel’s desire on his mouth. He knows/doesn’t know that Dean is thinking dizzily if Castiel’s body will revert to what it always does immediately afterwards, tight and sleek as if untouched, or if the toy is big enough to leave an imprint on his flesh for at least a little while—leave him stretched and wet the way Dean was, after they filled him up with their toy. Dean’s mind flitters, filthy and intense, thinking of fucking into Castiel while he’s so open, spilling come into him and watching it trickle out of a hole that can’t keep it in.

Castiel doesn’t know if it’s possible, if he can trap his grace so far inside him that it doesn’t try to heal what is pleasurable rather than an injury, but he’s willing to try.

He _loves_ that Dean wants to claim him that way—in so many ways, as no-one else ever has and never will again. Even as a human Castiel found sex with April enjoyable enough, but his heartbreak was not for the loss of sensation, but for _loneliness_.

This, this is the very cardinal opposite of loneliness. This is Castiel’s beloved, his own Righteous Man, fervent about Castiel’s pleasure, and yes, Castiel _loves_ sex.

“I want you in my mouth, _”_ Castiel gasps, squirming. It moves the thick toy inside him in a way that is quite enticing now, and he does it again. “I want everything. Can we share?”

Dean looks a little dazed when he raises his head from where he was laying kisses, and Castiel loves that Dean can look like that without Castiel even stimulating him. Castiel was only partially joking when he said that Dean looked as if he might come even without a hand on him, but Castiel would like to put much more than a _hand_ on him. “What do you mean, sweethe—”

Castiel opens his mouth and attempts to look eager.

“Oh, _fuck_ , yeah, okay,” Dean agrees, and swings himself over.

They have tried this before, but they haven’t been able to get the coordination right—one of them almost inevitably grows too distracted. It’s not always Dean, though, and this should be embarrassing for Castiel—he _is_ an angel; shouldn’t he be able to keep his control better than a human, no matter how remarkable Dean is? But sometimes Dean’s pleasure and the coruscating rhythm of his want is so unbelievably _tempting,_ and Castiel still isn’t good at recognizing orgasm before it strikes him.

He opens his mouth and relaxes his throat; Dean is salt-bright already, and musky with arousal when Castiel arches his head back to allow glans and shaft to glide over his tongue. Dean is always adorably polite, even knowing that Castiel doesn’t need to breathe—he prefers to, but he doesn’t _have_ to—and has no gag reflex to speak of. On the bottom like this, he can’t rear back enough to let Dean out of his mouth so he can talk, but that doesn’t matter. There is nothing that he wants to say with his voice that he can’t say with his body.

“Ah, _Cas_ ,” Dean groans, and his forehead drops to Castiel’s groin. The breath of his plea is almost as warm as the way it sounds like prayer. “D-damn. Thought this was supposed to be about you.”

If Dean doesn’t understand yet that Castiel’s pleasure is found in _him_ , rather than in pleasure itself, well. Castiel is not going to inform him. Everyone already knows that Dean Winchester is his weakness; he thinks he’d rather not that _Dean_ knew it, too.

But this is what Castiel missed: the taste of him, the connection, the hot bright humanity—skin on skin. When Dean presses a hand to the silicone toy that’s buried to the hilt in him, grinding it deeper as he nuzzles breathy kisses along the crease of Castiel’s thigh, he can’t feel Dean’s warmth inside him—but the pressure of the touch zaps through him instead. It mingles with the no-longer-impossible fullness, and he moans anyway. At the vibration, salt trickles down his throat.

Dean, though, Dean runs a hand down Castiel’s thigh, the curve of his hip, and he _whimpers_.

Yes, Castiel thinks he can come like this. He’s certain. He closes his eyes and bobs his head as much as his position can allow, swirls his tongue along the smooth fullness of Dean in his mouth and notching open his throat; he allows Dean to thrust, cradling one hand over the deliciously round curve of his buttock to encourage it. But Dean follows every motion with one of his own hand, rocking the dildo inside Castiel, and that’s good, too. That’s so good, that’s—

When Dean wraps his own mouth around Castiel’s glans, the cascade of sensation is almost overwhelming, and that is not a term that Castiel uses lightly. His head falls back against the mattress—he only just barely remembers to keep his teeth away from the smooth curve filling his mouth. Dean smiles, and Castiel doesn’t know if he’s feeling it in the pleasure radiating off Dean’s skin like he should glow with it, or the way Dean’s mouth tightens at midshaft.

“Like that, huh?” Dean murmurs, his voice bright with triumph, and licks up his length, base to frenulum, the tip of his tongue flirting delicately around Castiel’s coronal ridge. When he joins it with a long thrust with the toy, it’s almost like having _Dean_ within him, kneeling between his legs and joining their bodies with a hand on Castiel’s cock to ensure his enjoyment (unnecessary, again, but still considerate). But… more. Different.

Yes, Castiel can remember just why they have difficulty with this particular act.

He hasn’t released Dean from his mouth completely, and sucks—hard—in retaliation.

The noise that Dean makes is an unholy combination of a chuckle and a groan, and so delighted it vibrates up Castiel’s grace like no heavenly song ever has.

It’s a game, from there, and in the end Castiel doesn’t know who wins. It’s triumph enough that they both managed to remain in the same position rather than toppling to their sides. Castiel can hear that his voice is even coarser than usual, echoing in a way that is not precisely human, as Dean continues to fuck him, matching the gentle and then ungentle thrusts of the phallus with licks and sucks and a bite to Castiel’s hipbone that almost arcs them both off the bed. The volume of Dean’s _want_ echoes in his grace, along every human and inhuman nerve, and when Castiel cries out—muffled, helpless—Dean hunches over him, his lips dropping to the crease of Castiel’s leg. He doesn’t arch, doesn’t thrust into Castiel’s mouth. Instead, he shivers.

The slide of Dean’s cheek down the side of Castiel’s cock shouldn’t be enough to stimulate him to orgasm any more than the come coating the back of his throat now, sliding warm and bitter as Castiel swallows and swallows. But Dean is moaning his name so _loudly_ , “Cas!” aloud, pressed into thin, sensitive skin at the join between groin and thigh— _Castiel, fuck, you’re so good, angel, I love you, please,_ in his soul the way it will never pass Dean’s lips.

It's alright. That’s what prayer is for.

But Castiel does not expect the intensity of it when he does come, when Dean turns his face just enough to nuzzle a kiss to the side of his shaft and presses the sex toy—one last time—its full length into Castiel’s body. His thumb circles Castiel’s taut rim. With the memory of Dean’s desires, his fantasies of claiming and wet, Dean’s eyes greedily watching the spot where Castiel is filled, that’s all it takes.

Warm gushes of come hit Castiel’s stomach, run down his shaft, smear across Dean’s lips. He hears Dean breathe, _“Yeah,_ yeah, just like that, babe.”

But Castiel can’t stop at pleasure alone—the bedside lamp shatters, and his broken wings flutter and flap uselessly against the bedsheets, ruffling them around him. The colors of the universe flash through the room, and he doesn’t have the chance to warn Dean to close his eyes, writhing as Castiel is.

But he and Dean are still joined, he still has Dean resting quiescent and in his mouth, and the rush of Castiel’s grace—

Castiel swallows again, again, thin sea-salt and his best friend’s pleasure even as Dean yelps in shock and comes again, mostly flaccid but still rolled in the tide of Castiel’s own orgasm.

They curve against each other, completely done, head to toe, like interlocking commas. Castiel finally lets Dean settle out of his mouth now that he is soft again. He barely notices, exhausted in a way that he’s forgotten he could be, when Dean carefully pulls the toy out from inside him and lets it tumble off the edge of the bed to hit the floor with a heavy ‘thump.’

But when Dean rolls off him, Castiel opens his eyes. Wistfully, Castiel looks down to see if Dean is looking up at him, or away.

That happens, sometimes, when it’s too intense. When it’s a little too good. The fact that Castiel understands it—that they are secret, that they’ve _been_ secret, and the why of it makes sense to Dean even if it has never made sense to Castiel—doesn’t make it less hurtful.

But Dean is peering sleepily up towards him, and smiling.

“Well, sonofabitch,” he says—and he has to clear his throat twice to do it, which, Castiel thinks, should not make him feel so triumphant—but it does. “Either you really, _really_ liked that, or you’ve been holding out on me, buddy.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel notes, a little sheepishly. He really normally _is_ better at reining in his grace than that.

“Fuck, no, don’t you apologize.” Dean totters on his knees, but he doesn’t attempt to stand, falling to Castiel’s side instead. They’re nose to nose. His eyes are lovely, and kind in a way that Dean lets himself be when they’re naked together. His soul pulses and glows. “You okay, Cas?” he asks, shakily. “Wow.”

“Wow,” Castiel agrees, and tugs Dean against him. They wiggle for comfort. Castiel closes his eyes, resting their foreheads together. His stomach is sticky, but he doesn’t care. When he drapes an arm carefully over Dean’s waist, Dean doesn’t pull away.

“Fuck, _Cas._ We’re definitely doing that again,” Dean mutters. Castiel luxuriates in the fact that Dean’s hand is shaking, his thumb tremulous as he swipes it against Castiel’s cheek for no apparent reason than he seems to want to touch. Dean seems to have forgotten that Castiel’s semen is on his fingers, but it’s not as if that bothers Castiel. Castiel settles one hand on Dean’s hip to help balance him; even lying down, Dean seems shaken.

Pleased, though. Well-pleased.

“Yes.” Castiel turns and catches him by the wrist before he can take it away. He settles his lips around Dean’s finger, sucking the familiar salt and bitter from Dean’s skin. The tingle of his own grace in it is cold against the sensitive insides of his cheeks.

Then he smiles.

“Bigger, next time?” Castiel asks.

Dean shivers.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. Never writing sex toy stories from Cas's point of view again. His brain uses the absolute unsexiest words for them. 'Phallus?' What the heck, Cas.
> 
> One more day, friends! <3 Love you all, and thank you for sticking out Promptober with me!


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